


But as Long as You Love Me So

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, M/M, The South Downs Cottage, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: Crowley does not like winter. And then it snows.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 10
Kudos: 163





	But as Long as You Love Me So

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 2, snow).

Winter is a cold thing. An ugly thing. A twisted thing.

It’s easy to forget, in London, how well winter fits him. In London, winter is chaos, a chaos he gleefully encourages. Streets and shops thronged with people trying to buy gifts at the last minute, elbowing past and tripping over each other in their haste to get at the last box of gaudy baubles; roads choked with stand-still traffic because everyone always loses their blessed mind and forgets how to drive the moment the weather so much as hints it’s about to take a turn for the worse; and everywhere, everywhere light and sound, the umpteenth repetition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” spilling out into the street from a coffee shop and clashing with the busker attempting to master “O Holy Night” on the accordion.

But he’s in the countryside now; and there is nothing here to distract from the truth of winter.

He’s in the countryside; and he has no doubt it will be charming in the spring, and bright in the summer, and glorious in the autumn, but oh, winter is ugly, and cold, and twisted. There is nothing of green in the sun-starved ground, nothing in the trees to soften the spindly, frost-shattered branches reaching out to the sky in mute supplication. Nothing of beauty in winter, nothing worth loving at all.

He does not look out of the windows much; does not like to see himself reflected so plainly in the frozen landscape.

They should’ve moved to the cottage in the spring. He’d have been settled by the following winter, then, he thinks, comfortable enough in this next step of their relationship that right now still feels new enough to be surreal. He’d have had the memories of spring, and summer, and autumn to sustain him through winter. He’d have been certain in the knowledge that he gets to have this, finally, finally, after six thousand years. That Aziraphale loves him. That he is worth loving.

But Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to wait, Aziraphale had been of the firm opinion that winter is beautiful in the countryside, and that they shouldn’t miss it; and there is nothing Crowley would deny his angel, and so he had not objected.

It’ll be better after Aziraphale gets the decorations up, he tells himself. Not that he likes decorations at all — they’re tacky and garish and entirely pointless. But Aziraphale loves them; and Crowley knows his angel is planning to put baubles and strings of lights in the trees outside, and that should improve the view from their windows a bit, he hopes.

It’s always better, when Aziraphale is around. Brighter. Warmer. Happier.

Aziraphale is still peacefully asleep as Crowley slips out of bed, though; and so, for now, he steadfastly and carefully avoids looking out of the windows as he pads downstairs, makes his way to the kitchen and starts getting breakfast ready. He can tell it’s cold outside today, colder than it had been yesterday; but the cottage knows better than to be anything but the perfect, comfortable temperature.

Of course, avoiding windows only works for so long. Aziraphale’s favourite mug is still upside down by the sink, where his angel had left it to dry yesterday evening; and there is a large, wide window right in front of the sink, and while getting the mug, Crowley can’t help but look outside, and —

It’s snowed overnight.

In London, snow is nothing; it’s just another part of the mess and chaos of winter.

But here in the countryside, with nothing and nobody else for miles around their cottage, it’s snowed overnight, and the world is transformed.

The early morning sun makes the snow blanketing the rolling hills shine as if a hundred thousand diamonds were scattered everywhere; and with the added contrast, he can see spots of green all over, including in the corner of their garden, where there’s a large holly bush he had not before noticed. The snow has settled like garlands over the tree branches, and there’s a small flock of birds scattered over them; and he can see, crossing the garden, the tracks left by a pair of curious foxes.

Outside their window, today, winter is cold, yes; but it’s also soft, and bright, and full of life.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring when he’s pulled out of his reverie by a pair of arms wrapping around him from behind.

“Come back to bed, love,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“I was making breakfast,” Crowley protests, half-heartedly, letting himself be pulled closer, sinking into his angel’s warmth.

“It’ll keep,” Aziraphale says; and follows the sentence with a kiss to Crowley’s nape — gentle, soft, and full of promise. “Come back to bed.”

Crowley shivers. “I thought we might drive down to the village today, get there bright and early. There’s a Christmas market — I know you love those.” He’d thought watching Aziraphale shop might make for a good distraction. Had hoped he might, for a bit, forget about the ugliness of winter; forget himself. Thing is, he’s not sure he even needs to, anymore, because — “It’s a beautiful day,” he says, helplessly.

“It’ll still be a beautiful day in a few hours,” Aziraphale says, the smile evident in his voice. “Come on.” He takes the mug from Crowley and sets it down by the sink again, then takes him by the hand and tugs him in the direction of the stairs, humming a cheerful tune under his breath.

It takes Crowley a few moments to recognise it; and then he groans. “‘Let It Snow’, angel? Really?”

Aziraphale smiles, bright and happy and entirely unrepentant. “It seemed apt.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Crowley says, letting himself be pulled upstairs, his angel’s warmth and love washing over him, softening his sharp edges like the snow softened the world outside.

There might be something worth loving in winter, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I can, as ever, be found on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
